A Life of Ambiguity
by UnderTheLimes
Summary: Draco Malfoy has always worn his emotions on his sleeve. It makes sense, then, that his transition from adolescence to adulthood is defined by his emotions: proud, shaken, weary, hopeful, and fulfilled. Glimpses into Draco's life, from age 13 through 31.
1. Proud

Proud

A young wizard sauntered through the halls of his ancestral home. His dark robe hung heavy on his shoulders, the fine emerald embroidery by the seams catching the light streaming in through the French windows. The teenager stopped in front of one of the windows and studied the view before him, resting his fingertips on the windowsill.

It was late afternoon – his favorite time. The harsh sunlight of midday had tempered out into a soft glow on the Manor's remote grounds. Leaves fluttered in a mild breeze, cotton-like clouds littered the sky, and birds chirped quietly. The southern section of the Manor's grounds was filled with life. Beyond the meadows close to the house, an expansive forest rose above the horizon.

He enjoyed these times of peace, where he could lose himself in observation for a few minutes. In the end, however, he could not remain still for long; a sense of urgency, of disquiet, moved him to action. Any action. Any movement. Anything. There were too many things he had to do – to work towards, to achieve, to live up to – for him to muddle along doing nothing.

The young wizard closed his eyes and turned away. _Focus. _His fingers lingered for a breath longer on the windowsill, but then he continued his path down the hall. To steady himself, he recalled the words his father drilled into him at a young age. Words to steel himself to the task at hand, no matter the consequences or implications. _Chin up. Eyes forward. Focus. _

_Chin up. Eyes forward. _"Goodness, Potter. I know moving two legs is a lot of coordination for you, but surely you can figure out how to walk for yourself? Or are you too busy mooning over the person closest to the Dark Lord?" At those words, a scarlet-haired witch flushed and a dark-haired wizard glared. Green eyes met pale eyes in a challenge.

"Jealous, Malfoy? I didn't expect you to embrace your Slytherin green that much." Potter took the witch by the hand and left, shoving past Malfoy and his two gruff followers.

"In your dreams, Potter!" His sputtered reply sounded weak, even to his own ears. No matter – the goal of an antagonizing exchange was met. Next time, his reply would be faster, wittier, and sharper. After all he was a Malfoy. No matter how it came up, his lineage was a point of great pride. Even when the reminder came from the lips of Harry Potter, enemy of purebloods, the Dark Lord, and hairstylists around the world. Draco Lucius Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy family, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and descendent of Armand Malfoy, would surely prevail against the half-blood Golden Boy. For now though, he had some homework to do in the Slytherin common room. One needed to be practical with schoolwork, especially if one wanted to become a powerful, influential wizard. _Focus. _

Jittery. A Malfoy, jittery. To be fair, this Malfoy was in the presence of the Dark Lord himself. Betraying too much weakness so obviously would not bode well for him, so he did his best to keep a cool façade. This was an honor – he could finally follow in his father's footsteps, make his family proud, and exert pureblood dominance over feeble muggles (and worse, mudbloods). What a chance! This is what his father had been preparing him for. It was time to start to make a name for himself, to live up to the prestige of the Malfoys before him.

"I'm ready." _Eyes forward_. _Chin— _He screamed. The searing sensation on his forearm was the last thing he felt before his vision blurred and faded.

Malfoy sighed contentedly. A few pieces of his platinum blonde hair fell into his face as he shifted.

"God, Draco! You're like a cat. A little sun and a nice lap and you're the happiest Slytherin I've seen in years." A brunette witch cackled. Even the smugness in her voice could not rouse his temper.

"Shut it, Pansy. I'm a man on a mission, and I can get a few minutes of peace and quiet if I want." Malfoy did not try to keep the pride out of his voice. Why should he? He was among those who would understand, most of them being Slytherins. As for the one who was not a Slytherin, this piece of information was a delicious boast that would drive him in circles. The corner of Malfoy's mouth turned up. Even the small amount of trepidation he felt at his momentous task could not stamp out his excitement to prove himself. He could figure this out. He was Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy family, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, descendent of Armand Malfoy, up-and-coming Death Eater of the Dark Lord. _Focus._

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A/N: Thanks for reading. I'm trying to work on my writing, so please leave any and all constructive criticism for me. I appreciate it!


	2. Shaken

Draco Malfoy was curled up on an a rmchair, fingers fidgeting. Pale eyes shadowed by mauve half-moons stared unseeingly into the roaring fire. His blond hair, once carefully styled, now limply fell into his face as he huddled deeper into the chair. His task was uncompleted. In fact, he had made absolutely no progress on his task. At every possible path, he was thwarted. Yesterday had been a long night of worthless effort, and so would tonight. His entire plan revolved around fixing the one item he had long ago deemed his only chance at success, but the cabinet was finicky and stubborn in a way only a broken magical artifact could be.

He needed to do something. He knew a backup plan would not work, but he needed to try. Poison? Curse? Dark artifact? Anything. If he could not work this out, if he failed at his task – well, it simply was not an option if he wanted his life to be spared. And, Salazar forbid, his mother's life. The Dark Lord was not known for being a kind and compassionate soul. He either had no soul or a soul so mangled it could no longer be called as such. Despite that, Malfoy knew great rewards would come with winning the Dark Lord's favor. No, failure was not an option, but here he was, huddled in the common room contemplating failure like a lesser being. Malfoys did not huddle in common rooms accepting failure.

Fidgeting fingers stilled. The figure on the armchair uncurled into a proper seated position, spine straight. Shoulders rolled back. _Chin up. _Glassy eyes blinked once. _Eyes forward._ Malfoy allowed himself one deep breath, exhaling slowly as possible. It was time to get back to work. _Focus._

Still, nothing was working to repair the cabinet. He channeled so much energy into the cabinet, cast the incantation until he was hoarse, and it still was not functioning properly. It was time for a backup plan. The backup plan was not going to work. The wizard knew this, but he had to try something. The itch of always needing to do something was there, ever-present. Messing around with the cabinet but having no progress was steadily eating away at his sanity. Malfoy slipped into the shadows, having reached his destination in Hogsmeade. On the off-chance this did work, he would be free – no, he would be rewarded. He would prove himself. His family would be proud. In the more likely scenario where this plan did not work, at least it could not be traced back to him. That was the one thing he was sure of: no concrete evidence tying him to this awful plan. That was the Malfoy way, after all.

A woman's soft humming could be heard through the doorway. He swallowed back the bitter bile that rose in his throat. This is what he needed to do. It was not to hurt her, or the young student who would also be involved. They would be fine. He was not going to hurt them. He was just going to borrow them for a little while. _Eyes forward. _He turned the corner, wand arm raised. _Focus._ "Imperius!"

His backup plans had failed spectacularly. Dumbledore was still alive and well, but one innocent bystander, Katie Bell, was in the hospital wing, and Weasley had almost died. Malfoy was certain that Potter would tail him even closer now that his best friend had been hurt. The one mercy in the whole situation is that Dumbledore had not confronted him, had not worked out that it was him. Or had he? It did not matter. If there was no real evidence, he was safe for now. And temporary safety was all that mattered; Malfoy's time was running out. His last-ditch efforts failed. The cabinet was still malfunctioning. Snape lingered at the sidelines, waiting for him to fail so he could swoop in, save the day, take the credit, and throw Malfoy under the Hogwarts Express. Desperation threatened to swallow him. He kicked the cabinet next to him to vent some of it. After a few seconds, he steeled his expression. _Chin up. Eyes forward. _He exited the room and entered the hallway where a second-year Hufflepuff loitered.

"I'm done for today. I'll ask you again later in the common room," Malfoy dismissed the light-haired witch in a flat tone. He turned and walked down the hall towards the stairs. The Hufflepuff looked unhappily at the retreating robes of the Slytherin before leaving the scene herself.

On the sixth floor, the blond wizard entered the boys' bathroom. He went over to the sink and leaned heavily on it, drained of energy. Another day, gone and wasted. No backup plans were left. He looked at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. The mauve under his eyes had darkened to a startling shade of puce, which stood out against his grey complexion. His hair was dull and unkempt, and his cheekbones now protruded unhealthily from his thin face. Malfoy released the sink and turned around, seeing the ghost who had kept him sane throughout his ordeal. Unbidden, tears leaked from his eyes and his fingers fidgeted. The ghost's kind eyes watched him as he broke down and confided in her once more – until the door opened. He whirled around, embarrassed at the intrusion. Just his luck – it was Potter, with his messy black hair and burning green eyes. This couldn't get out, he would be ruined. Potter had seen him crying, it was Potter. Why was it Potter? It was always Potter. At every turn, it was Potter. It was Potter being praised. Potter who could do no wrong. He had to end it. What could he do? Rage filled him. He had no time for this.

He wanted Potter on the floor, he wanted his enemy is as much pain as he was. Was Potter his enemy anymore? He opened his mouth, but Potter was faster. "Cru-!"

"Sectumsempra!" Potter yelled. The rest of Malfoy's Cruciatus curse was cut off in his bloodcurdling scream as he collapsed. Malfoy's vision blurred. The last thing he saw was green eyes above him. Was Potter worried? Maybe he would finish the job – or not. What did it take to actually kill someone?

He had done it. By Salazar, he had done it! The vanishing cabinet was working. Relief flooded him, better than any sensation he had felt thus far in his sixteen years of life. For the first time in a year, he could take a deep breath. Laughter started to bubble out of him. He had fixed the cabinet all by himself. The Death Eaters would be able to come into Hogwarts past the wards and castle walls. And then, once they crossed over, he could finish his real task. The giddy laughter died off as he sobered immediately. His real task that he had been working towards this entire time. _Chin up. _The Dark Lord had entrusted him with killing Albus Dumbledore. _Eyes forward. _It was time. _Focus._

_Chin up. Eyes forward. Focus. _Dumbledore was standing in front of him. He was disarmed and at Malfoy's mercy. Howling wind drowned out the din of battle below. It was time. _Focus. _He had to complete his task. _Focus. _It was just two words he had to say. _Focus. _He had casted the Imperius Curse before, he could cast the Killing Curse. _Focus. _

_Focus. _

He listened to Dumbledore ask him questions.

_Focus._

He bragged about how he fixed the vanishing cabinet.

_Focus. _

He listened to Dumbledore offer protection.

_Focus! _

He lowered his wand.

But he wasn't the only wizard with a wand on the Astronomy Tower.

The Manor halls were dark. Draco Malfoy moved quickly through the halls, attempting to look for his mother without attracting unnecessary attention. His mother, Narcissa, was his one source of comfort these past few months. Just seeing her set some of his nerves at ease. He paused at one of the French windows overlooking the southern section of the Manor. Darkness blanketed the meadows and forests, but Malfoy could make out shapes moving close to the Manor's wall. He felt a shudder ripple through him. Some Death Eaters were out there, so he might have some luck in finding his mother without running into any. He hurried away from the window and continued his search.

Luck was on his side tonight. He found his mother sitting at the vanity in her bedroom, brushing her hair. She studied his face in her mirror before twisting around to face him.

"Good evening Draco, darling. It's lovely to see you," she spoke in an even voice. She moved to one side of the bench she was sitting on and beckoned him over.

"Good evening, mother," he greeted. He came to her side and sat next to her stiffly. Piercing blue eyes and pale grey eyes met each other in the mirror and they examined each other's appearances.

Narcissa's blonde hair fanned out around her face, as beautiful as ever. Her expression lacked her usual disdain as she looked at him with concern. Concern? He turned his gaze on himself. He looked much the same as he had during his sixth year at Hogwarts. Witnessing torture and murder served to make his anxious tendencies worse, and the screams of their prisoners played on repeat in his mind when he was alone. His dark circles stood as testament to his difficulty sleeping. Even so, his mouth was missing the usual frown, instead taking on a relaxed neutral expression. He watched as Narcissa reached for her hairbrush and turned it over in her hands. Its ivory handle had constellations carved into it – a Black family relic. She gave him a small smile and turned towards him to brush his hair. They sat in silence there, mother and son, for a few minutes of comfort.

"It's not him," Malfoy spoke in a wavering voice. He cleared his throat and repeated it once more. "It's not him."

Green eyes looked at him with confusion in them. Malfoy was a little confused, too. Malfoy had seen the realities of being a Death Eater, of living with Death Eaters. The truth was far from the glamorous lies he had been led to believe as a child. His father was in Azkaban, they had prisoners they tortured regularly in the dungeons, he was terrified of moving around in his own home, and the Malfoys had lost some of the Dark Lord's favor. Was it worth it? At the very least, he could try to get unscathed through this. The only way the other side would win was through Potter. If he spared him… Potter would remember this, the sentimental Gryffindor. He had to protect himself and his family. He would do whatever it takes.

Malfoy bit his lip until he drew blood. Crabbe refused to listen to him because the Malfoy family had lost some influence among the Death Eaters, and the wizard had unleased Fiendfyre on the Room of Requirement. Flames had swept across the room in a matter of seconds. Malfoy and Goyle were saved by the Golden Trio, but Crabbe was dead. Hot tears pricked at Malfoy's eyes. The cursed flames danced in his eyes as he watched the nightmare below the broomstick, Crabbe's screams echoing in his ears.


End file.
